Authors: Jan Warburton
He handed me a card with my name and number twenty-eight on it and showed me how to ‘clock in’ by inserting the card into the top of a box shaped machine on the opposite wall. It clicked, and I pulled it out at the bottom, and saw 8.55 printed on it next to today’s date.
‘That’s it luv. Now pop it in that rack next to your number, and you’ll need to do it again tonight when you leave. Okay miss?’
‘Thanks,’ I said, placing the stamped card carefully in its numbered resting slot. I then became aware of another girl doing the same immediately after me. More nervous than ever now I took a deep breath and headed off along the dimly lit corridor towards the staff locker room.
I looked around in panic at the wall of long grey metal cupboards. Where could I put my things? The girl who'd ‘clocked in’ after me rushed in.
'You must be Annabel?'
'Yeah. Which locker can I use?'
'This one’s okay.' She pointed to the locker next to hers with a small key and a yellow tag hanging from it. 'Lucinda won't need it any more. She left last week.'
Blonde and quite pretty, in a snub nosed sort of way; she was dressed smartly in a light grey Chanel style suit with black braided edging. It looked awfully expensive. As I opened the locker door she continued to explain about always locking it and keeping the key with me in my purse. As I put my jacket away I wondered what to do with my cavernous handbag?
'You can bring your purse upstairs to keep in the office, but
not
your bag. Rules I'm afraid,' she flashed.
Crikey, it felt like being back at school!
She went on. 'I'm Vanessa by the way. We'll be working together. Can't talk now though; Edward goes mad if we're late. Look, I need the loo. See you upstairs.'
She disappeared, leaving me to gather my thoughts. I gave myself an evaluative glance in the small mirror on the wall by the door. Makeup seemed OK. My hair was now its natural mid-brown colour, instead of the outlandish burgundy red, which it had latterly been at college. This was piled on top of my head in a kind of knot. A bit tidier, I’d thought, than on my shoulders; the way I usually preferred to wear it. I was a working girl now and I figured I must try to look the part. I anchored some stray hairs behind my ears.
As I reached the stairs to go up to the salon Vanessa suddenly appeared as if on her way down again.
'
There
you are! Can you come quickly? I've got to show you around and we’ve hardly any time. Lady Moore's fitting's in ten minutes and Eve's off sick again. It's utter chaos, and I
still
haven’t been to the loo!'
Oh Lord. I swallowed nervously. Still clutching my purse, I followed her along a passage into the main salon. On the way we passed the open door of a busy, humming millinery workroom.
The regency salon was predominantly magnolia and gold; long and high, with ornate cornices and fancy gilt mouldings and architraves around the doorways and arches. Large chandeliers dominated the ceiling and huge, gilded, framed mirrors covered all the walls.
Two
vendeuses
- couture sales women, were seated at smallish cream and gold tables either side of the room. They appeared chic and sophisticated. Instantly I regretted I hadn't checked my own clothes properly before ascending to this grandiose room.
As I followed Vanessa across the salon I gave myself a cursory look in one of the many mirrors. Oh no! My under-slip was showing a good inch below the hem of my straight black skirt. What could I do? Just then a flustered Edward Hamilton erupted through the door ahead. I gulped, and smiled at him tenuously.
'Annabel! Good. Pop your purse in the top filing cabinet drawer in there, and then follow me. Lady M's due any minute and the swatches for the Ascot and Henley ranges have gone walk about.'
As I went into the office to deposit my purse I could hear him still flapping about things.
'Vanessa, darling, it's going to be one of those days; I just know it. Now because Eve's away you realise you'll have to model, don't you? God, it's going to be such chaos!'
On my way out I remembered my under-slip. Discreetly sliding my hand into the top of my skirt waistband I hitched it up. Just in time, because Vanessa turned and, grabbing my arm, urged me to pursue her and the dark, lanky designer to the fitting rooms. I followed obediently in their flustered wake.
An elegant, middle-aged
vendeuse
dressed in navy and cream and wearing fashionably large cream framed spectacles, stretched across her table with a wad of fabric pieces. 'I say, dear…give this to Mr Hamilton, will you,' she whispered. 'He'll go mad if he thinks I've had it all this time.'
I swallowed hard and clutching it, I rushed to catch up with Vanessa.
She spied the fabric swatch in my hand. 'Oh, so Iris had it, did she? Now, where the hell's the other one gone?' She snatched it from me and while I followed meekly, we approached the fitting rooms.
The morning progressed. The other missing swatch appeared miraculously from nowhere. Lady Moore fortunately arrived late, and so things relaxed a little beforehand. I also began to relax myself after a while. A quick learner, I soon grasped the somewhat grovelling procedure of handling such important clients, and made a point of mentally noting which fabrics related to which designs and where things were generally kept.
Later, while Vanessa was tied up modelling in the salon for another titled lady, Edward Hamilton asked me to assist him and his chief fitter with two more clients.
Despite running hither and thither for him, it was thrilling to be a part of the scene, even in such a minor capacity. I worked harder than I’d ever done in my life, and later in the afternoon over a cup of tea in the canteen below stairs, he kindly praised me.
'You've done well today Annabel. I think you and I are going to get along fine. The last girl I had was useless. You obviously know what you're about. Stick with me, and I'll teach you all you need to know about this crazy business.' He then said to call him Edward, which initially made me feel quite privileged until I learned that
everybody
called him that behind the scenes. Only in the salon and in the presence of clients we had to be more formal.
At first Edward appeared dreadfully up tight and a tad sharp with everyone whenever his clients were due. Despite this and his rather amusing camp way of talking, I soon warmed to him. I suspected it was just for affect, however, and I was dead right. He was, as I would eventually discover, as heterosexual as the rest of us beneath it all.
Vanessa also turned out to be friendly, if a little bossy at times. Half Greek, and the daughter of a shipping tycoon - Nikolas Karos - she was, as were the other girls, working just for the fun of it. All frightfully upper class debutante types, they talked endlessly about going off for the weekend to Shropshire or Berkshire ... to Hunt Balls, polo matches, coming out parties, and other la-de-da events.
Despite her wealthy background, Vanessa didn't look at all Greek to me, especially being so blonde. But she soon explained that she had inherited her fair hair and complexion from her English mother. She lived in a flat in Eaton Square with a friend, Fiona. Eaton Square was a very expensive place to live, I thought. Clearly these girls were all pretty comfortably off with massive allowances from their wealthy fathers. I therefore, soon began to wonder why Edward had chosen me for this job. I was just a middle-class girl from Ealing. How could I possibly hope to relate to these girls with their silver-spooned, upper-crust backgrounds?
*
It was around this time that I learned that Katherine Marshall’s portrait had become the outright winner of the Montfort Photographic Award. As a result it went on show for two months in the prestigious Montfort Gallery in Bruton Street, Mayfair.
I hadn't seen anything of Katherine since college. It was my old student pal, Tony, who told me about it one evening as I waited for my bus outside Ealing Broadway Station. It was late September and I'd been working at Courtneys for about three weeks.
'Hello Annabel, how're things?'
I barely recognised him; dressed so smartly in a pukka, grey pinstriped suit. We chatted a while and I went on to tell him how difficult I'd found things in the fashion world. 'They just don't want to know you without experience,' I complained. Then I told him how I'd spent all summer hauling my work folder around London, until finally the House of Courtney had taken me on.
He grinned. 'Brilliant! So you're on their design team, are you? You were easily the best designer in your year - you deserve to be doing well.' He was clearly pleased for me.
'No chance, I wish I were.' After explaining my menial job as Edward Hamilton's runabout I asked if he'd been called up for National Service yet.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I escaped because of slight deafness in one ear; the result of a mastoid infection as a child. So I’m attempting to break into commercial photography. Actually I've been to an interview today with a large advertising agency; hence the suit.'
I smiled approvingly. 'Very smart, I'm sure you'll be lucky.'
I meant it too - and anyway he’d already been so complimentary about my work.
'Hey, talking of luck, did you hear about Katherine er… what’s her name? You know… the girl who modelled for you in the college fashion show?'
'Katherine Marshall. Yes, I heard about the photo winning the award, but what else?'
'She’s only been discovered by the one and only Norman Parker Brown, that's all... as a result of that photograph in the Montfort.'
'Gosh. Really? Lucky devil.’
Norman Parker Brown was a famous society and fashion photographer; the best according to Tony. Royalty patronised him and his fashion work was in all the major glossy magazines, such as
Vogue
and
Harpers
.
Tony went on. 'Apparently he saw her portrait in the exhibition and asked to meet her. Since then he's doing the complete Svengali works on her. She's being groomed for a top-modelling career and by all accounts seems to be already heading for success in a huge way. Calls herself Kate now…'
'Well, she did a brilliant job for me, and she
is
beautiful...'
Just then my bus arrived and we said hurried goodbyes.
Oddly, the news about Katherine had quite miffed me. No denying it, the winning photograph was fantastic and of course she'd easily been the star of the college fashion show. Even so, I couldn't help feeling quite jealous of her current good fortune and over-night success. It's not fair, I groaned inwardly; some people have all the luck.
Then as the bus picked up speed down Ealing Broadway my thoughts turned to consider what a worthwhile contact she could possibly be for me in the fashion business. Particularly with her close involvement with the eminent Parker Brown.
Always on the look out for the main chance, I began to feel quite perky again, and why not? With Katherine heading for a top modelling career and me aiming towards eventual success as a fashion designer, it would surely only be a matter of time before she and I would meet up again? I had this uncanny premonition there and then, that somehow our two lives would be inter-linked.
Suddenly my hopes and aspirations took wing as the bus veered left down the High Street towards my parent’s home overlooking Walpole Park.
*
Later on, with Christmas on the horizon, Vanessa and her flatmate Fiona invited me to a party at their Eaton Square flat. I was overjoyed to be asked but expressed my concern about having no partner for the evening.
'No problem, darling, there'll be several spare men,' said Vanessa, breezily. 'You'll be well taken care of, I promise. Stay the night, if you like?'
'I'd love to! Thanks.'
Sounds promising, I thought, provided there are some decent males amongst them. Up to now I’d always sensed that for some reason men weren’t all that attracted to me? Certainly at college very few boys had seemed interested in me. My one quite intimate relationship in my second year with a boy called Adam hadn't lasted long and apart from another brief crush on a rather good looking male teacher, who turned out to be a homosexual, I'd soon come to the conclusion that men were basically a huge disappointment.
Unlike most of my fellow female students, the opposite sex had never seemed all that essential to my life. Of course that didn't mean it couldn't all change; should the right man turn up. Who knows, perhaps he would at this party?
Vanessa studied me. 'I say, you aren't prudish, are you, darling? Because you simply can't afford to be with Guards Officers.' Vanessa’s eyes flashed. 'They are the absolute worst for telling smutty jokes! Such fun though.'
I shook my head; confident I was no prude. Well, I didn't actually know any dirty jokes myself, but I was more than prepared to adapt to whatever their idea of fun was. Besides, socialising with Vanessa's crowd promised to be an entirely new experience. More importantly, I hoped that mixing with them might improve my social standing a bit.
Determined to fit in from the start, I'd already sort of adopted their rather plummy way of talking. Of course I wasn’t ashamed of my middle-class background or my own classless London accent. I was nonetheless acutely aware that I lacked their silver spooned breeding. Still, I seemed to have been accepted by them now, and the party invitation proved it.
My mother and stepfather Philip now moved in similar circles too. This was because of Philip's highly successful restaurant business, which currently attracted a very wealthy clientele. Many of their friends were pretty ‘well-to-do’, with connections in high places.
Looking back, Mum's only previous contact with such people had been through her earlier dressmaking business when several very upper crust ladies had been regular customers. However, like me, she'd had no trouble either, slotting into a life mixing with them. So now that everyone at work had accepted me I decided there
must
have been good breeding somewhere in our background for us both to have done this.